Page 124 of Symphony of Salvation

Then I remembered a time many months ago, after a different concert, when I’d kissed him in the back row of the auditorium. I stared at those same two seats, wondering where it had all gone wrong. Had that kiss been the catalyst of all this pain? Had I gone home that night and not turned around to see August reseating himself, might it all have been different?

“Mr. Edwidge,” Cody interrupted. “We can’t find the dolly for the timpani and drum set.”

I blinked from my daze. “You’ll have to locate a custodian. It will be in the storage room, and you’ll need the keys. Move themcarefully, please. They cost nearly as much as your tuition.” Not true but a lie to promote caution didn’t hurt. Cody nodded and ran off.

He and Constance were glued at the hip. I imagined August would have been stressed about their blossoming love, but I wasn’t confident in my assessment of the man anymore. For all I knew, he didn’t care. Besides, young love came and went with the seasons, so Constance and Cody’s relationship likely wouldn’t last. By next year, she might find someone else.

“Mr. Edwidge,” came a shout from overhead in the booth. “Can you help us with the soundboard?”

I glanced up, shielding my eyes against the overhead lights, and found Samantha and Donny peering down from the small window. “Find Matthew. He knows how to hook it up and set the levels.”

“Mr. Edwidge,” this from a puzzled Nadine at the back of the stage, “is this curtain supposed to be opened or closed?”

“Closed. Trinity, you’ll need to bring the chairs closer together, or we won’t all fit. Nice and snug.”

A tug on my sleeve had me turning. Constance.

“What’s up?”

She handed me the sheet music I’d been practicing for an eternity, the same piece she’d been helping me perfect for weeks. It had a long way to go before it would be stage-worthy. My previous ambition had faltered.

“I don’t think I’ll be tackling that one tonight. I’m not ready.”

She nodded and thrust it into my hands, forcing me to take it. I’d been debating not performing at all. A newfound sense of humiliation had me second-guessing myself. For years I’d opened the shows, but how pitiful, how pathetic. It proved nothing. It was the sign of a desperate man seeking approval.

Parents still complained. Dr. McCaine still tried to give my job away.

But the anguished look in Constance’s eyes changed my mind. She’d experienced enough disappointment for one lifetime. I would play if she wanted me to, even if it painted my flaws in red ink. I had enlisted her help and wanted her to know I valued all she’d done to get me this far.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

A faint smile touched her lips.You’ll be amazing, she signed.

The show opened at six. With the dimming of the houselights, a hush settled over the audience. A spotlight appeared center stage with my entrance. I stopped in its aura and peered at what I knew to be a large crowd. The blinding lights shining in my eyes obscured faces. I could make out forms, but nothing more. The farther back from the first row, the less distinct their images.

I spoke, thanking everyone for coming, reminding them of the house rules against food and beverages, the courtesy of not having their phones on, and the law against recording the performance.

As was the custom, I sat at the piano,Gaspard de la Nuittaunting from the rack. Constance came on stage to turn pages and offered a reassuring smile. I smiled back but couldn’t help but imagine Ravel and August sharing a drink and cringing over what was to come.

Choosing the piece was insanity, but the presence of the young girl at my side encouraged me to take the plunge.

Was my playing perfect? No. I fumbled once in a random spot that had never tripped me up, but I continued, covering the error well.

Did I manage the transitions between movements? Miraculously, yes. For the first time ever, I crossed those bridges without making a mistake.

I played the piece to completion. As I bowed and took my place at the conductor’s stand, Constance gave me an approvingnod. The students filed in to take their seats as a nugget of pride warmed my chest.

The concert progressed smoothly with duets, solos, and several ensembles. The burst of applause at its conclusion reminded me how much I loved my job despite the constant shadow of inauthenticity hanging over my head.

Any attempt at maintaining professionalism went out the window the second the houselights came up. Students flowed from backstage to greet parents they hadn’t seen in ages. I stood off to the side, observing the commotion, the loving embraces and claps on the back.

Constance joined me, standing close. She wasn’t my daughter, but she belonged to the man I loved, and over the past few months, I drew strength from her and she from me.

“You did great.”

You too, she signed.

I would need to mingle and talk to parents at some point, but I wasn’t ready. Content on the sideline, I listened to the buzz of indistinct conversations, of students’ energetic chatter and parents’ layered praises, when an off-sounding noise caught my ear.

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